


Adrift

by Elderberry



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Culture Shock, Distopia, Drift needs this, Drift wants none of this, Eventual Happy Ending, Exile, Fluff, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Malnutrition, Medical Procedures, Minor Character Death, Past Drug Use, Past Prostitution, Politics, Slow Burn, Starvation, Touch-Starved, Transformers Spark Bonds, Transformers form their own family units through bonds, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, cuddle piles, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-06 11:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15193625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elderberry/pseuds/Elderberry
Summary: In a world where Autobot's and Decepticon's are two separate empires existing on Cybertron; Drift, a Decepticon, is sent into exile for crimes against his empire.Left to wander The Wastes, a hellish strip of land separating the two sides - Drift is certain he will not survive. Addled by syk withdrawal, starving and low on hope, he makes a desperate bid to steal a bit of energon from an Autobot command post sitting along the edges of The Wastes.He fails, and is taken prisoner.From there, his entire life changes.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... this popped into my head after going on a Transformers reading binge and has been demanded to be written ever since. 
> 
> Just a few notes for this piece: This is an AU, and as such follows no Transformers story-line. In this AU the Autobot's and Decepticon's are two empires which make up Cybertron. There was a war, many thousands of years ago but both sides agreed to a stalemate and the world was split into two territory's.
> 
> The Wastes are a thin strip of land between the borders of Autobot and Deception territory. They are considered inhabitable, full of unnatural horrors, and a death sentence for anyone who steps foot into them. 
> 
> Family Bonds also exist in this story. They are usually made up of anywhere between 10-20 mechs and femmes. Each 'Bond' has a head or Alpha which leads it. This is generally the oldest, or wisest of them. 
> 
> All Cybertronian's need to be apart of a Family Bond. They can go a little while without being in one, and can change them as they see fit, but overall they need the bond connection to maintain good mental health. 
> 
> So yeah, just a bit of clarity before reading. :)

Prologue

There are thousands of bots; all jeering and shouting as Drift is led to the raised dais. The chain around his neck is pulled harshly, and he stumbles a bit from the force of it. His hands are pulled behind him, still locked tightly in the stasis cuffs he had been put into the day before. _‘The day before…’_ he thinks bitterly, _‘just how had things managed to go so wrong?’_

When they reach the platform, the bot leading him – a large, heavy plated, monster of a mech – gives another harsh yank to the chain. It sends Drift stumbling again, and unable to right himself he falls face first onto the hard steel floor. A roar overtakes the crowd, laughter mixed with derision, as Drift lies there, trying to right his spinning processor.

Abruptly, a hush falls over the gathered bots, and in his chest cavity, Drift feels his spark clench. A part of him just wants to lie there for eternity – until he turns to rust and every other bot in attendance has long stopped existing – but he is ripped to his feet within seconds and shoved toward the end of the dais.

When his optics have adjusted from the force he glances upward, and the reason for the sudden quiet becomes apparent. Standing high up on a balcony in the middle of the antechamber, is Megatron. For a moment their optics lock, and Drift does his best to force down a shudder as the cold gaze bores into him. Eventually Megatron raises an arm, gesturing to the crowd and then to Drift himself, a malicious smile blooming across his faceplates.

The shouting begins anew, angrier and more urgent now that their leader is amongst them. It rises until the very building shakes with the force of it, and Drift can feel the vibrations beneath his feet. Bile churns in his empty tank, his HUD flashes a purge warning that he shakily dismisses – he will not give them any more satisfaction. Finally, Megatron makes another gesture and the mob of Decepticon’s falls silent.

“Drift,” he begins, optics once again falling to where Drift stands. “You stand trial this day for your repeated crimes against the Decepticon Empire. Yesterday, it was discovered you played a hand in liberating mass amounts of energon from the factory here in Kaon. Furthermore, you have previously been arrested and sentenced for aiding and abetting a smuggling ring. For the latter you served a hundred years labour in the pits. For this crime, you will be given a choice; three hundred years in the pits, or three hundred years exile in the Wastes.”

Megatron is leering down at him, face twisted into grotesque amusement as the implication of his offer washes over Drift. He had barely survived a hundred years in the pits, three hundred would finish the job. But exile into the Wastes – Drift shudders at the thought. The Wastes are a horrid place, a deathly limbo separating the Decepticon and Autobot empires. Few bots ventured into them and returned to tell the tale.

Drift’s spark clenches painfully as the realization that both options are an assured death sentence wash over him. For a moment he wishes Megatron would simply order an execution instead, but deep-down Drift knows that his true punishment is suffering. It is not about his death, which will come no matter what he chooses, but about how cruelly he can be made to suffer before it happens. Taking a deep breath, spark still hammering, Drift makes his choice.

“The Wastes.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this is a bit late, I had plans to post it yesterday but the site was down and didn't go back up before I had to leave for work. 
> 
> This chapter is pretty much just me making things hell for Drift. But don't worry! Things pick up in chapter three! ;)

The moment the massive gate slams shut behind him, Drift takes a deep, shuddering breath. It rattles in his chest, and he holds onto it until his intakes start to burn. Slowly he lets it out, and his optics flick around at the strange new world he has been banished to.

All around, large, twisted spires of metal protrude from the ground. They reach up to unfathomable heights, looming giants from an age long dead and conquered. Shadows play in every direction, cannibalizing each other so that little of Cybertron’s sun touches the ground. It is a hellish landscape – sharp and jagged beneath Drift’s feet – a place which forces those who step into it, to abandon all hope.

Drift takes a hesitant step forward, his spark pounds, a steady staccato in the cavity of his chest. For a moment he glances behind himself – back at the massive wrought iron gate and the wall that spans beside it – before he forces his gaze back and begins to walk.

Hours tick by, but Drift does not stop. He walks and walks, ignoring his fuel gauge which blinks an angry red. At some point, his frame begins to shake, though from hunger or the lack of syk flowing through his lines, he is not sure. A part of him cries out for the comfort of the drug, for its ability to mute his hunger no matter how low his fuel goes, for it to numb his mind of the terrible, whispering thoughts that circle back and forth. It has been over twenty-four hours since his last dose. Soon, he knows he will barely be able to stand without it to trick his systems into continuing to run.

So, Drift walks.

In an hour the sun will sink, and darkness will make shadow of everything. Then, the creeping, crawling things that have been lurking, waiting, will emerge. He is not safe but will be even less so when the last vestiges of light have disappeared. Drift knows, in the back of his processor, that he must find some form of safe harbor if he is to survive the night.

From the corner of his optic, he catches movement.

Drift whirls around, hands balled into fists – the only weapon he has – and stares, frame tense, in the direction the movement is coming from. A second later a turbo-fox emerges from behind a pile of rubble, fangs bared, growling low and deep as it sizes him up. Drift does not wait. Turbo-foxes, though solitary, are sly and sneaky, and this one looks desperate. He launches himself forward as fast as his ailing frame will allow and kicks out just as the creature lunges. His foot makes contact, sending the turbo-fox flying back a few feet.

He is on it again in seconds, fists pounding down, striking it’s plating with all the force he can muster. It writhes and screams beneath him, clawed feet lashing out, teeth snapping at air as Drift beats, and beats and beats. Finally, it stops moving, optics growing dim as lines break and energon begins to spill forth. It gives one last jolt, a weak snap of it’s jaws, then goes still. Drift gives it one last, good smash before pulling back, intakes heaving. Energon is bleeding out, coating his hands and the ground around him. A sickening thought worms its way to the front of his processor – pushed by the steady, red glow of his fuel gauge.

Drift finds himself leaning down – as though compelled by a newly awoken, savage bit of instinct – and flicks his tongue out. It makes contact with the cooling metal of the turbo-fox, chasing the leaking energon across its flank, down to where a line is snapped and bleeding. He cannot stop himself, driven by hunger and desperation, from latching onto the line and sucking. It tastes horrid – and burns as it slides down into his tank – but _Primus_ it feels good to have something, _anything_ , filling his insides once more. He drinks until there is nothing left, tank cramping as it works to digest for the first time in weeks.

He pulls back, finally, and brings a shaking arm up to wipe at his face. For a moment he sits, stunned by the savagery of his actions, before pushing himself to his feet once more. His spark is uneasy now, as he stares down at the turbo-fox’s carcass. He has killed before, but never in this manner.

A shudder rips over Drift, as he contemplates the likelihood of needing to do this again. Survival without a source of energon will be impossible, and even if he managed to find another way to obtain it, he has no viable way to process it. This is his only option, he realizes with a sinking bit of dread, and he must do what he can to keep himself alive. Resigned, Drift stands and moves quickly away from where the turbo-fox lays. He can dwell on it no longer, the sun has nearly finished setting, and things much more dangerous will be prowling about now.

Shelter must come next, and Drift moves as quickly as he is able over to the pile of rubble the turbo-fox had emerged from behind. He pokes along it, optics straining in the near darkness until he finds a fissure leading down into the ground. It is just large enough that if he angles himself right, he should be able to squeeze into it.

Not for the first time, Drift thanks the powers that be for the slightness of his frame before pulling in a deep breath. It is tricky, but with a bit of twisting and turning he can get one leg, and then the other through the opening. His upper half takes a bit more work and scrapes painfully as he forces it through, but he manages, and in a few minutes the entirety of his bulk drops down to the ground below. The chasm is small, barely large enough for Drift to stand at his full height, but it is secluded and warm, and will do as a place to wait out the night.

He scuffles around for a moment in the semi-darkness, then lets his frame slide to the ground with a hiss. It feels good to be off his feet, and once seated Drift lets his head tip back, optics shuddering closed, and takes stalk of his situation. His energon reading is still low, sitting at a paltry thirty-three percent, but still higher then he can remember it being in ages. The fuel from the turbo-fox sits unpleasantly in his tank, and he takes a deep breath, placing a hand over his midsection, to try and quell its roiling. As long as it stays down, he’ll be okay for a while. Which is good, he thinks, because his frame has resumed its shaking.

At that moment, his HUD pings, alerting him to the fact that his internal temperature is rising to unsafe levels. Drift scoffs at this, because he doesn’t feel hot. If anything, he is cold, so cold he shakes with it, plating rattling in the darkness of his new home. It’s the fever, he thinks muzzily. Thoughts slowing and becoming distant now that he is no longer moving. He has been here before, and the only thing that can stop it is another dose of syk.

But there is no syk. Nor will there be, out here in the Wastes.

A little laugh bubbles up from deep within him as he counts the number of times he has tried to get off the stuff before. Every time, he had become so sick it became a liability to his safety. Now though, he has little choice, and at some point, he stops thinking, frame going limp as he slips down into an uneasy recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Drift meets Prowl and things get moving!


End file.
